


Sherlock's Valentined

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: Sherlock. Molly. Valentine’s Day. Smut. It ain't rocket science.





	Sherlock's Valentined

Sherlock Holmes was alone in 221b this cold February evening, nursing a wrecked left shoulder and a large whiskey. The only light in the flat came from the fire, now dying down into shifting embers, casting a warm orange glow around the room. He hadn’t bothered to turn on any lamps; the dark better suited his pensive mood. He popped two painkillers (Wiggins had proved very helpful in procuring his favorite opiate off the streets), and chased them down with a gulp of his drink.

Glass in hand, he gazed out the window at the snow, lightly falling in the pink London night, muffling the sounds from the street and covering the city in an icy, glittering blanket. Its beauty appealed to him in an elemental way; it also gave him a convenient excuse to stay at home. Still, he huffed in frustration, feeling edgy and constrained due to his injury. He hated this enforced idleness and the damp made his shoulder ache. He stirred the fire to chase the chill away and added another couple of logs before settling into his chair. Leaning back, he tried to find a position that eased the pain in his shoulder, and sank into thought just as the small clock on the bookshelves chimed ten p.m.

He was currently between cases with little scientific analysis to occupy his mind; perhaps that’s why his thoughts soon drifted towards Molly Hooper. An image of her rose up in front of his closed eyes, a fiery, dark-haired angel who had claimed a singular position in his life. A warm sense of regard swept through him as he thought of her. 

Normally he tried to drive thoughts of her away, to avoid acknowledging his feelings, but tonight he was lonely; unwanted ideas about her flooded his mind. Despite his attempts to emotionally keep her at arm’s length, he realized that her steadfastness, her undying loyalty and unwavering affection for him had crept, like a tiny mouse, into a tender area of his heart and made its home there. He couldn’t begin to imagine life without her, even if their relationship was…difficult for them both.

It wasn’t long after they met that his wary scorn for her crush on him had changed into studied indifference, which morphed into curiosity, then into admiration, and finally into something he didn’t care to name. If he was honest with himself, he might have admitted he was close to an edge he intellectually despised, close to the ultimate distraction. He found the idea of stretching towards her, like a plant craving the light, rather enticing. At the same time, it was unfamiliar and a bit scary, which, in his mind, justified his dissembling.

He wasn’t blind to her feelings for him. He knew she loved him, that she was waiting for him, that she would always wait for him, no matter how many dates she went on with other men. That knowledge pushed at him, increasing the pressure on him to leap, full-hearted, over the edge. But he knew, intellectually, he must remain steady and unyielding in the face of his desires.

As a diversion, he normally kept a fully packed case load. Spinning too many plates, as John was wont to chide him for, without understanding the secret reason for his excess. When he was working he was hyper-concentrated, focused, his mind bent solely to the tasks in front of him. When he wasn’t working he drifted and became a fool, longing for a glimpse of her, making up thin excuses to stop by Bart’s, fighting feelings of jealousy when she was dating other men. His injury now assured his idleness and he knew it was dangerous. It left him time to wallow, alone with intractable thoughts of her loveliness.

It had become increasingly difficult to deny or even refute what had become painfully obvious to his rational mind. He heaved a sigh of dissatisfaction as the truth swept over him. He was in love with her. Despite his forbearance, his stoic denials, and even his own intentions, he loved her to the depths of his being.

He didn’t want to be in love, of that he was sure. With a few exceptions, all he’d seen of love was miserable people engaged in betrayal and cruelty. In his estimation, being in love proved one’s stupidity, one’s weakness, and one’s inability to reason correctly. 

Until tonight, he’d attempted to view his own infatuation with her as a minor irritation, a stupid crush that simply mirrored what her own had been. Now he understood it wasn’t a passing fancy, or something he’d outgrow in a few years, or even anything he could control, and in this realization he recognized his true mirror in her. Neither of them could help the feelings they tried to ignore. It was like they were being pushed together by a steady, implacable, inexorable force. 

The realization hit him like a car. Sudden, startling, crushing. In admitting the truth to himself he was struck with a terrible, yearning pain. He clutched his chest, wanting her so much his heart hurt. He longed to be by her side for all eternity, burning and being consumed in the fires of desire, ultimately exploding into swirling stardust, together, always and forever. _Dear god_ , he thought, tempted to rush out this very minute into the deepening snow and find her, kiss her sweet mouth and tell her everything. _She must never know._

For the thousandth time, to stiffen his wavering resolve, he dragged out his mental list of reasons why this was a bad idea. He’d been working on the list for a number years, ever since she assisted him during the fall, when she’d softened his heart with her willingness to help him and her unquestioning, gentle kindness. Usually the list worked; he was able to keep thoughts of her at bay. Tonight, however, it served another purpose. It became his lifeline to a dubious sanity, to the power of scientific reasoning, and ultimately, to her safety.

He’d boiled the list down to two main points:

1\. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.  
2\. He wouldn’t put her in danger.

There were a great many sub-points under each main point which he’d considered for varying lengths of time over the years, including his inability to identify and correctly respond to social cues, increasing the probability of wounding her emotionally, his general unworthiness as a decent, caring human being, threats to her physical safety from his enemies, and the very real possibility of injury or even death if his mind started to stray whilst he was working. His damaged shoulder was proof of that.

Tonight, for the first time, he finally admitted to himself that he loved her, but he knew it would be impossible to admit it to her. At the risk of inching closer to the yawning chasm at his feet he would allow his feelings. But for her own good she must never know how he felt, how much he wanted her. That would be his gift to her: freedom from his…idiosyncrasies. A chance at a normal life with a normal man. And if she moved on, perhaps he might, too, liberating them both from the pain of his inadequacy. 

He took another swig of his whiskey, the satisfying burn settling in his stomach. He was doing the right thing; he knew it.

A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Are you awake, Sherlock?” Molly peeked around the door, smiling to find him at home.

He glanced at her and did a double take. “How are you so tall?”

“I’m wearing heels, Sherlock,” Molly laughed as she entered the room. She flashed a delicate ankle at him and shook the snow off her coat. 

The sight of four-inch black Louboutins made his mouth go dry, but he merely grunted and tried not to stare. Or drool. “You were walking in the snow in those?” He frowned, concerned for her safety. 

“Yep,” she answered. “Even though all I had to do was cross the pavement between the taxi and your door, I almost killed myself,” she added with a laugh. “The snow’s getting quite deep, isn’t it?” she shivered and pointed at his glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey,” he answered, gesturing towards the bottle in the kitchen and tightening the reins on his emotions. “Help yourself.”

She tossed her faux fur coat at him with a grin before going into the kitchen to pour herself a drink. Whilst her back was turned, Sherlock buried his face in the fur, breathing deeply. It was still warm from her body and her scent enveloped him, sending a pulse of pleasure up his spine. Quickly, before he got caught, he threw the coat over the back of his chair, adopted a neutral expression, and took in her appearance.

She was wearing a cherry-colored cocktail dress of crushed velvet, off the shoulder with short, butterfly sleeves. The bodice was tightly fitted whilst an easy, draped, knee-length skirt sporting a slit up the side softened the silhouette. Her hair, which sparkled in the firelight from tiny drops of melted snow, was swept up in a twist and secured with a large, carved ebony comb. As she walked he could see the lacy tops of her black stockings peeking through the side slit, and he caught a tantalizing glimpse of pale, creamy thigh. 

As if she knew he was looking, she cocked her hip as she stood at the counter with her back to him, pouring her whiskey slowly, giving him a good, long, time to appreciate her curves in the clinging dress. Before she picked up her drink, she turned slightly, in profile to him, and placing her foot upon a chair, adjusted her stocking, leisurely smoothing it up her leg and fixing the lacy top. Just as slowly, she did her other leg. A tiny, knowing smile gracing her lips, she ran her hands from her small waist up over her breasts, re-settling them in her bodice. Then she picked up her drink and came into the sitting room.

His eyes narrowed, sirens going off in his mind. There was certainly something different about her tonight. She was dressed to kill, looked fabulous, and exuded a dominant sexuality, as if she was out…hunting. He wondered if he was intended to be the mouse to her cat. The idea made his heart skip a beat.

He focused a deductive eye on her figure as she walked. Her waist seemed more defined than usual, her torso smooth and straight, and the gentle swell of her breasts above the low neckline of the dress definitely showed…enhancement. There was no doubt about it, he realized with a slight shock and a quiver of excitement. Molly Hooper was wearing a corset. This agreeable discovery quickly burrowed into his mind, making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else. Images of her dressed solely in a black corset flashed through his mind. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and groaned, more loudly than he meant to, fervently wishing for strength.

“Hmm?” she asked as she settled into John’s chair, crossed her slim legs, and took a sip of whiskey. “You said something?”

“No,” he responded, flatly. He could smell her perfume in the air. It was intoxicating. And distracting. It made him want to pull her close and nuzzle her neck. “Bad date?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Thurston Clive, from Cardiology. Thurston Horace Clive the third. I should have known what a jerk he was from his stupid, posh name. _Thurston_ , for god’s sake. He seemed nice enough in the beginning, but after slamming four shots in a row he started ogling other women at the club and getting handsy. He had no style or romance, Sherlock,” she fretted, “and I wasn’t in the mood to get pawed by a drunken creeper, so I dumped him and decided to stop by here on my way home to see how you are.”

“Too bad, Molly,” he commiserated, whilst inwardly seething. The idea of his Molly being _molested_ by that…cock made him want to break things. He envisioned the satisfying crunch of the man’s nose under his fist. “And on Valentine’s Day, too.”

“I know! It’s so unfair.” She pouted, sticking out her lower lip. 

_She should stop doing that_ , he thought distractedly, unable to take his eyes from her mouth. _Talk about unfair_. Her lips were begging to be kissed, to be nipped, to be sucked. Would they taste like warm honey? Would they be yielding and luscious? He mentally shook himself. _Christ, shut up, you idiot_ , he warned himself. _Think of something else_. He attempted to re-focus on their conversation. “Do you want me to beat him up for you? Be happy to.”

She laughed. “That’s sweet of you, Sherlock, but you couldn’t beat up a fly with that shoulder.” 

He nodded a sad assent. “True. But it won’t always be like this,” he countered. “I could pencil his death in on my calendar for a month from now.”

She pretended to consider his offer before shaking her head and giggling. “He’s not worth it,” she said. “Besides, I’m not springing bail for your murder charge.” She took a sip of her whiskey. “What’s with the scruffy look? Have you given up shaving?” she asked, indicating the five days worth of beard on his face.

“Too tedious,” he responded, affecting a bored sigh, “and it seemed unnecessary, since I’m stuck here until my shoulder heals.” 

She nodded, sympathetically. “I like it. Makes you look dangerous. And sexy,” she added in a low voice with a smile and a suggestive raise of her brows. She began swinging her leg, drawing his eye.

“Molly…” he warned, shaking his head at her. She was brimming with playful charm tonight. If she kept up this game of cat and mouse he was going to get so discombobulated he’d run straight into her arms. But wasn’t that the tactic of a predator? Disorientate, hypnotize, pounce. His head was slowly spinning and the opiates, flooding his system with sensuous waves of pleasure and casting a languid, euphoric cloud over his thoughts, weren’t helping his resolve.

“Like my new heels?” she asked, changing the subject and propping her feet up on Sherlock’s chair between his legs, provocatively close to his groin. They were black patent leather with blood red soles, the toe box sharply pointed like a scalpel. He stared at them, blinking rapidly. “They’re very shiny, aren’t they?” She started rubbing his inner thigh with the side of her shoe, clearly taking pleasure in watching him tense up.

“Very nice,” he replied, swallowing hard, the blood in his veins starting to throb, feeling himself sinking into a mind-numbing fog of lust. “Very…shiny. And pointy. But you’re going to punch a hole in my leather chair with those stilettos.” She just smiled at him steadily and continued to lightly stroke the inside of his thigh, making no move to stop. With an exasperated huff, Sherlock grabbed each foot in turn and removed her shoes, dropping them to the floor. “Stop playing around, Molly,” he commanded.

In retaliation, she tucked her feet under his leg. “My toes are cold,” she complained, wiggling them. 

Sherlock was growing more uneasy with each passing minute. He was beginning to think things he oughtn’t: what she might look like out of that dress, how her heated skin would feel under his exploring fingers and lips, how her soft mouth would taste, what sounds she might make with him thrusting into her, her thighs clenched around his hips. He shook himself and tried again to refocus, but it was nearly impossible with her pushing on his thigh like that.

He sighed, trying to determine which of these sweet tortures was worse—those damn shoes, her little feet in those black stockings, the filthy thoughts flooding his mind, or that look on her face like the cat who got the cream. “You’re feeling…frisky tonight,” he noted, trying to regain a sense of control.

“Meow,” she purred in response, sliding down in John’s chair to reach further up his thigh with her foot. She absently-mindedly ran her fingers along the low neckline of her dress, over the top of her breasts, and bit her bottom lip. As she continued to rub his leg, the slit in the skirt of her dress shifted, giving him a better view of her thighs and her lace-topped stockings. A brief glimpse of black knickers nearly made him groan out loud.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, not knowing where to look. The back of his neck flushed pink and a sudden rush of blood went straight to his groin.

“Something wrong?” she asked, innocently.

“Uh, no,” he lied. “It’s just…my shoulder. The cold makes it…ache.” He rubbed it for effect.

“I told you not to jump on the bonnet of that car,” she said, mildly, continuing her gentle, maddening assault on his leg. “You should have let him drive off.”

“He was getting away with your bag!” he protested. “And I was doing fine. I would have had him in a minute.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, snickering. “You were doing fine until he slammed on the brakes and you went flying. Into a trash bin, if I recall.”

“Maybe it was a stupid idea,” he agreed with a soft chuckle. “Never had a dislocated shoulder before. I was lucky you were there to pop it back into place.”

“And to stitch up your side, you stupid man. When are you going to learn?” Her words admonished him, but her low voice thrummed with affection. 

He shrugged and shook his head. “Probably never,” he confessed.

“Does it hurt much?” she asked with a lift of her dark brows. Her eyes had gone soft and caring in the firelight.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“The truth, Sherlock.”

A silence grew as he, feeling torn, considered his response. If he lied, she’d keep after him because she already knew he was suffering. After all, she was there when it happened. But if he admitted he was in pain, she’d fuss. Neither option seemed acceptable and he couldn’t think of another. Finally, wanting the attention, he gave up. “Okay. Yes, it hurts,” he admitted, quietly.

“Let me look,” she said, over his feeble protestations. She got up, came over to him, sat on his thigh, and began to unbutton his shirt. He instinctively slid his arm around her waist. This close he could see details he’d missed before. A few locks of hair had come loose from her twist and trailed down the nape of her neck. Someone’s fingers had been in her hair, mussing it up. Her lips were a little red and swollen. She’d been kissing that arsehole. The realization made his blood run hot with jealousy, and with an effort, he suppressed a growl. 

As she bent her head to see better in the dark room, he noticed how her sparkling earrings perfectly emphasizing the delicate curve of her jaw and the line of her throat. He could see her pulse beating steadily in the warm hollow under her ear, and he fought back an urge to press his lips to that spot. Her nearness was disorientating. 

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” she smiled, her large brown eyes glittering softly at him, whilst she slipped another button free. She ran her fingers lightly under his shirt, brushing across the skin of his chest, slowly searching for the next button.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Dr. Hooper?” he asked. The words popped out before he could stop them.

Molly giggled. “Would you like that, Mr. Holmes?” she whispered. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but shut it again immediately, not trusting himself to speak, afraid he might say yes. He wanted to say yes, to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to worship her body, to unburden his heart and admit his love. But he couldn’t, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, so he bit his lip and said nothing. He just stared at her, mesmerized, hypnotized by her loveliness.

She pulled his shirt tails from one side of his trousers and, sliding her hand across his bare chest, pushed his shirt and dressing gown away from his injured shoulder. She gasped once she saw the damage. “Oh, my god, Sherlock! I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

His left side was a mass of enormous bruises, stretching along the slope of his shoulder, around his arm, and down his side nearly to his waist. Mostly purple, shading into sickly greens and yellows, they looked tender and painful. There were also a number of scabbed-over abrasions and some stitches closing a gash on his ribs.

“I forgot you haven’t seen the bruises yet. These are from the dislocated shoulder,” he explained, pointing. “And the other ones on my side are from the…trash bin.” He almost sounded embarrassed. “This long scrape is road rash. I think there’s still gravel in it.” He tried to laugh but it died in his throat.

She carefully ran her fingers over him, checking for any sign of infection or slow healing. “Jesus, Sherlock, you are never to do anything so stupid again,” she said, her voice trembling. “You could have broken your neck.”

“It’s getting better,” he said, growing uncomfortable. “It aches at times, and it’s horribly stiff, but I’m slowly working it and it’ll be okay. Don’t fuss, Molly.” 

He didn’t see her eyes narrow. “Does it hurt when I push on it like this?” she asked, irritated with him for brushing aside her concern so lightly.

He winced and hissed. “Yes, that hurts.”

“Okay,” she said, mildly. “Don’t let anyone push on it like that. And never tell me what to do.”

He shot her a look. “Point taken,” he conceded.

She examined the shoulder with a critical eye. “The bruises are coming along nicely,” she commented, “but these abrasions look very dry. I have just the thing for that.” She retrieved her clutch, reseated herself on his leg, and dug out a tube of ointment. “This stuff is great,” she told him. “I use it because my hands get so dry with the latex gloves and the constant hand washing. It’s not very medicinal, but this should make it feel better.” 

“It doesn’t smell like flowers, does it?” he asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I don’t want to smell like a girl.”

She laughed. “Just a little bit,” she answered, letting him smell it. He shrugged. She squeezed a generous dollop onto her hands, rubbed them together to warm them up, and began slowly, carefully, working the ointment into his skin. She hummed whilst she ministered to him, a simple tune that was sweet and charming.

He slowly closed his eyes, breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction, relaxed, and let her work. The ointment felt nice gliding over his injuries, her strong fingers rhythmically stroking, soothing the itch, the pain, and his tension. “Mmm,” he rumbled, oblivious to his danger, falling into a delicious haze filled only with her scent, her hands, the satisfying weight of her body on his thigh, and the cooling balm of the lotion. 

She took her time, working her way along the slope of his shoulder, around his arm, and finally down his side, being careful around his stitches. When she finished long, blissful minutes later, he opened his eyes and gazed into hers, lost in a beautiful dream, adrift in her kindness. She smiled gently at him, her eyes full of love and compassion. 

He wanted her so badly he could hardly breathe, the ache of his undeclared need flooding his body. He was balanced on a knife’s edge and the room seemed to tilt. Towards her. “ _Don’t say it, don’t say it_ ,” he told himself sternly, even as his mouth was opening and he was falling, falling, into her adoring eyes, her warm body, her kind heart. “Yes,” he whispered, his desire overcoming his reason.

“Yes?” she echoed.

“Regarding your earlier question, Molly. The answer is yes.” His hand, which had been resting on her waist, moved down to her hip, his fingers toying with the soft fabric of her skirt.

“What question?” He didn’t respond, merely looked her from under his lashes. The fire crackled and shifted in the grate whilst she thought. “Oh,” she murmured, understanding him at last. “That question.” He nodded. “Oh, my, Sherlock. Are you sure?” 

He smiled softly at her and nodded again, and it was then she saw the hunger in his eyes. They were dark blue, almost black, his pupils dancing from the reflected, flickering firelight. He reached up and caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I…I…care for you, Molly. More than you know, and much more than is safe for either of us. I want to be with you. In all the moronic ways people in love are.”

She looked around the room. “Is there a camera in here?” she whispered, confused. “Is this for a bet?”

“No, Molly, there’s no camera and it’s not for a bet. It’s just us.” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’m…revealing my heart to you.”

“Oh,” she said. There was another small silence whilst she considered his words. Unexpectedly, she reached over and pinched his arm, hard. “Sherlock, is this really you? You’re acting…strange.” 

He yelped. “Jesus, Molly, did you come over here just to assault me?” He rubbed his arm and scowled. “So abusive. I’m going to be entirely covered in bruises before the night is over.”

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just…I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“Then is my declaration…unwelcome?” he asked, hesitantly, a sinking feeling roiling through his stomach. “I thought you would…like it.”

She sat up straight, her brows drawing together. “What brought this on?” She sounded suspicious.

“Aw, come on, Molly,” he said, with a short laugh, his voice returning to its normal tone. “You walked in that door tonight with the clear intention of fucking me senseless. Those shoes, fixing your stockings like that,” he gestured angrily towards the kitchen. “Touching your breasts, playing footsie with my leg, your… perfume, that… corset.” He swallowed and lost his train of thought for a second.

She laughed. “Hang on. How do you know about the corset?”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Surely you remember I am the greatest consulting detective on the planet? I can deduce anything.”

“A modest man with the tiniest ego,” she teased. “And don’t call me Shirley, Sherly.” She giggled.

“Admit it,” he said, goading her. “You want me. I’m more than agreeable; I’m taking you up on your offer. With the promise of future benefits,” he finished, his voice deep and suggestive.

“I admit nothing of the sort,” she said, archly, leaning closer to him. His arm around her tightened as she gently stroked his forehead. “Are you running a fever? Hallucinating?”

He smiled. “Yes. I’m burning up with my love for you.” He realized he’d made an error because she was suddenly angry with him; he could tell by the way her body tensed and her breathing changed, not to mention that thing she did with her nose. It was somehow sharper. He braced himself.

“Don’t be so impetuous,” she responded with a icy dose of sarcasm, her eyes flashing. “It’s only been seven years. Are you sure you don’t need another decade to decide? After all, I wouldn’t want to rush you.”

He looked sheepish. “Molly, I know this is…late and, um, unexpected, and I’m not going to bore you with all the reasons this is probably not a good idea. You know how I am. I’ll make a terrible partner for you. I’ll make you angry, leave you hanging, put you in danger, take risks you’ll hate. I’m not…domestic.”

“Enough of this sweet talk, Sherlock,” she said, with less heat than he was expecting. “You’re going to sweep me off my feet with all this romance.” Her confusion and anger were fading, but he could see that a tiny bit of doubt still existed. As they looked at each other, her eyes started filling with a growing wonder, a burgeoning sliver of hope blooming to life.

“I thought…I should be straightforward with you,” he explained. “In case you don’t…want to, or if you have more objections. But I meant what I said,” he finished, firmly.

“Sherlock,” she asked, softly, “when did I ever, in all the years we’ve known each other, given you the impression I didn’t want to?”

“Never,” he answered with a smile. “So, do you?” 

Her expression shifted as the love she bore him began to shine through her eyes. “I do,” she breathed. “With my whole heart. And I will admit it. I came here tonight because I want you so much I couldn’t stand another moment without you. I’m lonely, Sherlock. I think you are, too. I want to be with you, always and forever. I always have.”

Sherlock blinked and his heart soared. A delightful, unthinkable thing was happening. Right now. The most beautiful smile he had ever seen broke across her face. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock,” she whispered, slowly sliding her arms around his neck as she leaned down for a kiss. He raised his head to meet her lips. It was soft, sweet and gentle, as a first kiss should be, but after a few moments they began to relax and warm to each other. Their kiss became more heated. 

He pushed his tongue into her mouth, deepening their embrace, and reached up to cradle her cheek in his palm. She wound her fingers into his hair as their tongues swirled together. After a time, she broke away and tugged the remainder of his shirt out of his trousers, pushing it off his shoulders. “Mmm,” she sighed, running her greedy hands over his bare chest. “I’m so glad Thurston is an arsehole.”

“Thurston’s got nothing on me,” he muttered, jealous of even this poorest of attributes.

“Yes, you win the arsehole award,” she laughed, bending forward and kissing him deeply for long minutes. “You really are the most infuriating man. Life with you is never going to be dull.”

“I know,” he said, with a smug smile. He pushed his fingers into her hair as he devoured her mouth. “Take your hair down, Molly,” he whispered against her lips, wanting to feel the luxurious silkiness of her locks wrapped around his hands.

“You do it for me,” she said, swiveling so the back of her head faced him. “Take the comb first, and then there’s lots of bobby pins.”

He drew the carved comb from her hair and started removing the pins. It took a few minutes, but finally it was free, and she shook her head, letting the great, thick mass of curls cascade over her bare shoulders and down her back. He ran his fingers through it, admiring how heavy and shiny it was, before gathering it up in his hands and rubbing it against his cheek. 

She turned in his arms and pressed her eager lips against his once more. She kissed him passionately, trailing her lips over his cheekbones and along his jaw, gently biting his ear whilst caressing the sensitive nape of his neck with her fingers. He felt a thrill run through him, his heart starting to pound as he became aware of the untapped depths of her desire for him.

“What are you going to take off?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow when they broke apart, breathing heavily. “It only seems fair. I’m half naked now. You should be, too.”

“You choose,” she whispered.

“Let’s start with this,” he suggested, reaching behind her for the zipper of her dress and slowly drawing it down. 

She stood up, pushed her dress down and off her torso, over her hips, and let the fabric settle in a soft, velvety mound on the carpet. Suddenly feeling shy, she giggled nervously and put her hand over her mouth.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Molly,” he breathed, gazing at her in admiration. She was everything he’d imagined, and more besides.

The corset was well suited to her personality and figure. It was simple, exquisite, and clearly expensive, made of black silk brocade with six flat metal hooks down the front. Satin ribbons tied the cups together in a soft bow, and its only adornment was a tiny red heart stitched under her left breast. She’d matched it with black lace knickers and the black stockings. With her hair down, falling in rich, brown curls over her shoulders, she looked stunning and incredibly desirable.

Sherlock thought he might have a heart attack. “You are fucking gorgeous,” he managed.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” she blushed. “And stop swearing.”

“Okay,” he agreed, unaware of what he was saying, unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Um, Molly? Could you…would you…um, put the shoes back on?”

She laughed, breaking the tension between them. “Maybe you should put them on me,” she suggested. “Would you like that?”

He nodded, his eyes wide, flashing with open desire. She came over to him and put her hand on his good shoulder for balance. He slid each shoe onto her feet and looked up at her. “I mean it, Molly. You are so beautiful.”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” she murmured, turning to sit down between his spread legs, her arse pressed up against his hips. She leaned back against his chest, rested her head on his good shoulder, and placed her hands on his thighs, inviting him to explore her body. “Just so you know, Sherlock,” she said, turning her face towards him. “Before we begin. I like it a little rough. Not too much, but some.” Her eyes twinkled at him, and the expression of wonder on his face made him look like he’d just received the greatest gift known to man. Overwhelmed by his good fortune and struck speechless by her beauty, he kissed her deeply, mingling his tongue with hers for a long, delectable time.

He wrapped his hands around her small waist, enjoying the texture of the stiff, steel-boned undergarment, before sliding up along her ribs to her breasts. He caressed them through the silk cups of the corset, stroking her sensitive nipples with his fingers. Molly arched her back, pressing against him, sighing at his touch, rubbing her hands firmly along his thighs, encouraging him to continue his exploration. 

He gently ran his fingertips along the top of her breasts and pulled the end of the ribbon to untie the bow before sliding his hand under the cup. The corset was too tight to freely accommodate his large hand, so Molly reached up and unfastened the top two hooks, allowing him access. He pushed his hand in, stroking her soft, warm breast, and rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, enjoying the little moans and mewling sounds she made. He squeezed it harder, feeling her body start to tremble, and he lowered his lips to her neck, licking, kissing and biting, filling up with her scent and the sweet taste of her skin.

His fingers trailed down her body to her hips, caressing the outside of her legs before moving across her knees, enjoying the texture of her stockings in contrast to her smooth skin. He stroked the inside of her thighs, moving upwards at a maddeningly slow speed, causing her to squirm in frustration. She spread her legs apart a little more as his exploring hands reached her knickers. He pulled them down, trying to remove them. 

“Rip them off, Sherlock,” she whispered. “Tear them.” 

He twisted his fingers into the narrow lace panels on each hip and yanked. The thin fabric tore readily and she quivered at this tender violence, a soft, excited grunt escaping her. With one motion, he pulled them off and threw them into the fire. 

She turned slightly towards him and gracefully draped her leg over his thigh, giving him easier access to her intimate centre. He immediately started caressing her, luxuriating in the smooth heat of her skin, sliding his hands over her belly and through her curls before rubbing his long fingers along her wet opening, spreading her nectar around. He found her clit and started to rub it. As he stroked her, she began to shudder with desire, bucking against his fingers, moaning. She pushed her hand between them, fondling his hardening cock through his trousers. 

He continued to rub her soft pearl, bringing her to further arousal. She slid her hand down his forearm to his wrist, intertwined her fingers with his and moved his hand, showing him the harder, more intense rhythm she craved. Her body began to tighten, soft moans escaping her. He stroked her breast with his other hand, pinching her nipple, tugging on it, building her desire.

Her back arched until she was sprawled across his lap, completely open to his touch, close to the pinnacle of her passion. He pushed two fingers deep inside her and scissored them, stretching her, using his thumb to stimulate her further. Panting, she cried out, her body shuddering in waves as she came, before she relaxed, limp in his arms. Slowly returning from her ecstasy, she opened her eyes and smiled at him. 

She was flushed and still quivering from her orgasm, and he realized he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He raised his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers clean. She was so wet and he was so hard; he wanted to be inside her, right now. “Get on the floor, Molly,” he said, unable to wait any longer. 

She immediately got onto her hands and knees on the carpet in front of the fire, her arse in the air, and spread her legs apart, exposing herself completely. Looking over her shoulder at him, she winked. “Is this what you want, Sherlock?” she asked, her voice low. She rolled her hips in the lewdest way possible. His mouth fell open, his cock aching as he gazed at her, his desire becoming unbearable. He gulped, nodded and stood up.

She scrambled to her knees and pounced on him, unfastening his trousers and pushing them down before taking him fully into her mouth as if she would devour him. He staggered, unsure if his legs would hold him up. Her mouth and tongue felt like heaven on his throbbing cock. He groaned as she worked him, licking him, running her teeth along his length, and using her hands to apply pressure in just the right places. 

After just a few minutes, he thought he might come from sheer, exquisite pleasure. His knees started to buckle. “Wait, Molly,” he panted. She stopped just as he sank to the carpet. He tried to support himself as he collapsed, but only succeeded in jarring his shoulder. “Ow, ow,” he hissed. Molly quickly grabbed the Union Jack pillow from John’s chair and put it on the floor, guiding him to lay down. 

“Oh, baby,” she said, stretching out by his side so they faced each other, her body pressed along his, compassion radiating from her entire being. “Relax into it. You’ll feel better in a minute.” She kissed him, slowly and tenderly, running her fingers along his jaw, murmuring sweetly in his ear, soothing his discomfort. After a few moments he recovered, the pain subsiding, and he began to respond to her caresses by returning them.

She grinned impishly at him, reached for his cock and started to stroke it, feeling him harden again. He leaned over and unfastened the remaining hooks on her corset. It slid off and she took a deep breath, relieved to be free of the constricting garment. 

With his fingers, he traced the long marks on her skin, imprints from the boning in the corset. “Do these hurt?” he whispered.

“Not much, but you could kiss them better,” she suggested.

“I think this one starts here,” he said with a smile, lowering his lips to her breast. He took the peak of it into his mouth, licking and teasing it with his tongue, enjoying the sounds she made as it hardened, causing waves of pleasure to shimmer through them both. He trailed his lips down her body, deriving great satisfaction from hearing her soft groans, knowing he was the one wringing them from her. She wrapped her thigh around his hip, rubbing her wet centre against his stiff cock, needing him. “Now?” he asked, hard and ready for her.

“Now,” she breathed. 

He pushed in slowly, until he was fully buried inside her, filling her completely. He began to move, gently and carefully. She was tight and wet and the friction was so exquisite he had to pull back a bit, in order to make their intimacy last. As they fell into a steady rhythm, they grew more comfortable with each other and their tempo quickened. She met his every move, grinding against him, matching his speed and urgency, her body trembling from her desire. She grabbed his arse, pulling him into her, harder and rougher, mewling with pleasure.

They moved together with increasing hunger; he started to pant and groan with each thrust. He kissed her deeply, eagerly, as he felt his climax building and her body grow tight. Finally, rising together, they reached their pinnacle and came, gasping and shuddering. He dropped his head to her breast, rejoicing in finding fulfillment, at last, in her arms. Spent, he rolled onto his back and she collapsed across his chest, both of them breathing hard, deliciously sated.

“I thought you were a little kitten,” he said, amazed, when he could speak. He ran his fingers through her hair, pushing it out of her face. “A timid mouse. But you’re a wildcat. You’ve slain me.”

She purred deeply in response and laughed. “A good night’s hunting, then,” she teased. “I got you after all, didn’t I?” she said, stroking his cheek tenderly. 

“An excellent capture,” he agreed. “But you’ll have me forever, you know.” He smiled into her eyes and kissed her nose.

“Took me long enough,” she admitted. “You’re a wily and slippery man. But what a prize!” she winked.

He laughed. “I’ve been fighting this for a long time,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Some day, you must tell me why. Seems stupid now.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Sherlock, because we belong to each other from this moment on, always and forever,” she said. “Just the two of us.” She grabbed his dressing gown off his chair and covered them both before cuddling up to him.

He wrapped his good arm around her. They lay together in silence for a while, breathing deeply, enjoying the nearness of each other and their mutual happiness, filled with peace and contentment. His eyes slowly drifted shut. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my Molly,” he murmured, nearly asleep, pulling her closer. 

“Mmm,” she said, gently stroking his chest with her palm. She watched the fire for a long time until she also fell asleep, safe in her lover’s arms.


End file.
